“Or send anyone else to follow me.”
“Or that, either.” Jean-Pierre looked very much as if he’d benefit from half an hour of outraged swearing. “Please do not. They are out there. If you go, you expose yourself to danger. They have tried to kill Harris already.”
She glanced at Harris. He gave her a private little nod of confirmation.
“Okay, it’s dangerous.” She did not look happy at the prospect. “But I’m doing it anyway. So sit.” She took a tentative step toward the door.
Harris cleared his throat. “Gaby, you want some company?”
“You’re damned right I do.”
He rose. “Mind if I go upstairs to change?”
“I have grass on my ass, too, and you put it there. No, let’s just go.” She had on her tougher-than-nails expression, but Harris could hear the distress in her voice: she wanted out, now.
“Right. Never mind.” Harris checked his pockets. Doc’s gun, the volt-meter, and the big silver coin he’d been given about a day ago. He hoped these would be all he’d need.
It would otherwise have been an enjoyable walk. The morning sun was sending tentative streamers of light down into the street as they headed uptown from the Monarch Building, and even at this hour the street was alive with traffic. Fruit stands were already set up, if they’d ever been taken down, and a boy wearing shorts and a beret with his long-sleeved shirt hawked newspapers with a sales cry of “Oyez, oyez!”
Come to think of it, the street had been alive at every hour he’d passed along it. Neckerdam didn’t sleep. He liked that. But he’d enjoy it a lot more if he didn’t look behind every bush and in every storefront expecting one of the Changeling’s men to come leaping out at him.
“You jumped on Jean-Pierre pretty hard. Were you just testing the limits, pushing the rules as usual?”
She smiled. “I don’t have anything against him . . . but from the way he talked, I felt like I was some sort of package to be stuck in a storeroom. I hear talk like that, all I want to do is slap it down.” She shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
He forced a falsetto: “No problem, didn’t hurt a bit.”
She laughed. He thought, maybe if he built up a large enough supply of her laughs, then she’d reconsider things.
Gaby continued looking around her, wonder on her face. “God, this place is great.”
“You sure are taking it better than I did when I first arrived.”
“Maybe. It’s all very familiar. Like the kinds of places I dreamed about when I was a kid. It’s hard not to believe in a place you already sort of know.” She shrugged. “You know, when I was little, I didn’t want teddy bears or Barbie dolls. I always wanted my pop to find me a stuffed toy no one else had. An eight-legged horse.”
“Why the hell would you want an eight-legged horse?”
“It was supposed to be Sleipnir. The horse of Odin. From Norse mythology. Anyway, I bet I could find an eight-legged horse here. It’s the kind of place where it would fit right in. Hey, listen to that.”
They paused on the sidewalk near the door into a restaurant; the neon sign above the door read “Tifania’s.” Each patron who entered or left—and there were quite a few—let a wash of music escape. Harris heard a pretty jumble of many stringed instruments.
With the music came the smell of fresh bread. Harris’ stomach suddenly woke up. He gestured toward the door. “After you.”
The corner bar and the restaurant tables took up about half of the establishment’s large main room, while the dance floor and a raised band platform took up the other half. Even at this hour the band was playing merrily away and the dance floor was crowded.
Young men and women of the fair world, even more brightly clothed than the average people on the street, were doing circle dances or paired off in something like a double-time ballroom dance. Some of the music called for steps that looked like sword-dancing without any swords on the floor.
The band played more of the Irish-style music. The instruments were mostly woodwinds and strings; the standout performer, a dumpy man with nut-brown skin and a goatee, battered away at a hammered dulcimer with skill that Harris found amazing.
A waitress with sand-colored skin and an abbreviated dress of headache-inducing red seated them in the restaurant section. There were no menus; Harris asked for the house special, while Gaby ordered a drink by pointing and asking for “what he’s having.” On the tables were cloth napkins, two-pronged forks and sharp knives, nothing too strange to their eyes.
“So, you got me to Neckerdam,” Gaby said. “If it’s real. No, I’m not really doubting it. I’d rather enjoy it. But I was going to ask—what now?”
“I wish I knew. It really upset Jean-Pierre to hear that Duncan Blackletter is on Earth—on the grim world. So they probably don’t know what the hell they’re going to do yet.”
She made a face. “I was hoping you had some sort of plan in mind. Sic the police on the bad guys, put them in jail, and everybody go home.”
Harris’ gaze was drawn to a man at a nearby table. He was of greater than average height for the Neckerdam people, nearly six feet, and well-built; with his thick red hair, green suit, and pipe, he looked like a human-sized leprechaun who’d spent a few months on a Nautilus machine. He kept looking at Gaby as though he recognized her.
Harris tensed. Maybe Duncan’s people had caught up to them already. Maybe he should have told Jean-Pierre to stuff himself and that Gaby was a sort of prisoner for now; at least she’d be safe.
The red-haired man stood and came their way. As inconspicuously as possible, Harris slid his hand into his pocket and got a grip on Doc’s pistol. He was suddenly a little light-headed. Prefight adrenaline.
The redhead came up to the table and beamed down at the two of them. “Grace,” he said, and turned to Gaby. “Pardon my manners. Are you two lovers?”
Gaby looked at him, wide-eyed. “Excuse me?”
“Well, you don’t act like lovers. So I wanted to ask if you would join me on the floor.” He gestured toward the dancers with his pipe.
“Oh.” She glanced at Harris a little guiltily. “Well, thanks, but no thanks.”
The redhead spread his hands in a comfortably familiar “can’t hurt to ask” gesture. “Well, then. How about to bed? My flat is close, and I treat the ladies well.”
Gaby gaped at him a long moment and didn’t answer. Finally she managed, “Thank you, but not this morning.”
“Ah, well. Fair morning to you, then.” His step jaunty, the redhead returned to his own table.
Harris tried to unlock his shoulders. His hand didn’t want to let go of the gun. He managed it anyway. “Son of a bitch has a lot of nerve.”
“Maybe. He was very polite, though. I’ve heard lots worse.” She glanced at him, then smiled. “Harris, you’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not.” He found himself annoyed.
“Yes, you are. But never mind.”
Harris was saved from offering a rejoinder by the waitress’ return. His “house special” turned out to be a ball-shaped loaf of fresh, mealy bread, a little bowl of jam, and a crock of potato-and-sausage hash. He tore into it, prepared to devour just about anything to satisfy his hunger, but it turned out to be good—spicy and filling.
Gaby started to sip her drink, then looked at it warily. “Maybe I’d better not.”
“Why?”
“Well, some of my father’s stories . . . you eat their food, you don’t come back.”
“I ate their food. And I came back.” Harris shrugged his unconcern and attacked his hash again.
“True.” Gaby sipped her drink. “Hey, ginger beer!”
“Blech.”
“No, it’s good. Care to try a sip?”
“Thanks anyway. The last time I took a drink, I ended up in Neckerdam.”
That earned him another smile. “Okay.” She watched the crowd, alert, soaking up the local color with her journalist’s eye. “Interesting,” she said after a while.